by Barbara Pym
It seemed that I was right, for the hall was very crowded. I noticed that the lay people had arranged themselves in little groups, each clearly distinguishable from the others. As a kind of centrepiece there was old Mrs Beamish, large and black, at the same time brooding and quietly triumphant, presumably because Father Ransome was to live under her roof. She was surrounded by various elderly ladies in yellowish-brown fur coats, one of whom I recognized as Miss Prideaux. Mary Beamish, wearing a woollen dress of a rather unbecomingly harsh shade of blue, was hovering near her mother. I was glad that I had decided to wear black in which I always feel right. Near this group I saw Mrs Greenhill, the clergy's late housekeeper, in close conversation with her friend and crony Mrs Spooner the little verger in her familiar peacock blue hat which had a large paste replica of the bird pinned to the front of it. It seemed almost as if they might be murmuring together against the clergy, for I saw them glance in Father Thames's direction once or twice. I also noticed two well-dressed middle- aged women with a young girl, whom I remembered having seen in church sometimes. All three were chinless, with large aristocratic noses. Near them stood a thin woman with purple hair and a surprised expression, as if she had not expected that it would turn out to be quite that colour. She wore a good deal of chunky jewellery, and I felt she had gone a little too far in showing that churchgoers need not necessarily be dowdy. She was rather surprisingly in conversation with a group of nuns from the convent in the parish. The nuns were of two kinds, short and motherly looking, or tall and thin with steel- rimmed spectacles, pale waxy complexions and sweet remote smiles that had something a little sinister about them.
It must not be supposed that there were no men present, but my first overwhelming impression was that, as at so many church gatherings, the women outnumbered the men. There seemed to be a kind of segregation of the sexes, though various young girls and boys moved about freely between all the groups. The largest male group was that dominated by Mr Coleman, the good looking fair-haired master of ceremonies, with his cronies, some of whom I recognized as fellow servers, but one of whom - a tall youngish man with a high dome- shaped forehead - I guessed to be Mr Bason, the new housekeeper at the clergy house. The two churchwardens and the secretary and treasurer of the parochial church council were together in a corner, looking rather important. In the middle of the room stood the three clergy. Father Thames and Father Bode were evidently leading Father Ransome round and introducing him to the various groups of people. When I entered the hall Father Ransome had his back to me, and it was not until later that I was able to form any definite impression of him. This first sight told me only that he was tall and dark.
Being alone I felt that I had to attach myself to some group, and as nobody noticed my entry nobody came forward to greet me. The obvious and dreary course would have been to join Mary Beamish and the old ladies, but something in me rebelled against this and I found myself walking over to where Mr Coleman and the presumed Mr Bason were talking together. As so often happens, I caught the tail end of a rather esoteric conversation.
'...wouldn't believe the trouble we had over them,' Mr Bason was saying.
'It's really simpler when you haven't got any,' said Mr Coleman in his low voice with its slightly north country accent 'There were only four Sundays in Advent last year, I remember, so it can be a bit of a problem to know when to use them.'
'Good evening,' I said, feeling more at ease interrupting a men's conversation than a women's.
But they did not react in quite the way I was accustomed to. Mr Coleman gave me a slightly hostile stare from his intensely blue eyes. Mr Bason looked a little surprised.
'I'm Mrs Forsyth,' I explained, 'and I think you must be Mr Bason. My husband was so glad to hear that you had settled in at the clergy house.'
'Oh, then I really owe the job to you?' said Mr Bason. He had a rather fluty enthusiastic voice, and I felt that had he been older he might have called me 'dear lady'.
'Well it did seem the obvious thing, when my husband told me about you and I knew Father Thames's need.'
'It's just the kind of thing I wanted,' said Mr Bason, 'and such jobs aren't at all easy to get. But those poor things - I really feel like a deus ex machina!'
Mr Coleman looked a little puzzled.
'I don't think we have ever met socially,' I said, not wishing to leave him out of the conversation, 'but of course I have often admired you from afar.'
He smiled and flushed slightly, and I felt that I liked him better. I made some remark about how difficult it must be to carry out the complicated ceremonial as well as he did.
'There's nothing to it once you know how, Mrs Forsyth,' he said. 'It's just a job like any other. Father Thames is a bit exacting at times, but that keeps me on my mettle.'
'Of course they do say, don't they, that he's a disappointed man,' said Mr Bason rather eagerly.
'Really?' I tried to keep the note of interest out of my voice, though I did not really wish to discourage Mr Bason from going further.
'Well, it is common knowledge in the diocese, surely?'
Mr Coleman looked away and said something to one of his fellow servers. I had the impression that he disapproved of the turn the conversation had taken.
'He had hoped to be made archdeacon,' declared Mr Bason in a loud clear tone.
'Archdeacon?' I echoed, but did not ask of what, for I was unwilling to reveal my ignorance of what was apparently common knowledge in the diocese.
'Certainly! And of course he is getting on now - must be over seventy.'
'Yes, I suppose he is older than Sir Denbigh Grote,' I said.
'Well, Sir Denbigh is no chicken, and he too has made rather a mess of things judging by all accounts.'
'Really? What did he do?' I tried to remember what I had heard about him. He had been at some Middle European embassy at the beginning of the war but had been obliged to leave hurriedly when the country had been overrun by Hitler's armies. 'Surely he had to leave his post because of the war?' I said. I had often pictured the scene at the embassy on that day - the hasty packing, the burning of secret documents, and even the used blotting paper in foreign-looking tiled stoves ...
'Yes, he did, but I gather that he was a little over-enthusiastic in his destruction of secret papers,' said Mr Bason gloatingly. 'He went and destroyed the whole lot when he should have brought some of them away.'
'It must be very difficult to make up one's mind on such an occasion,' I said, wanting to defend Sir Denbigh.
'Yes - fortunately we are not likely to find ourselves in that sort of position,' said Mr Bason with some complacency.
'Do you like living in the clergy house?' I asked.
'Yes, it's really quite cosy. I have a bed-sitter - not the room Mrs Greenhill had. That was a poky little room on the ground floor - very damp, I should think.'
'No wonder she got fibrositis and found the work too much for her.'
'Was that why she left, then? Well, a change had to be made. The state of that kitchen, you wouldn't believe it! I should think baked beans and chips was about all she knew how to cook!'
It occurred to me that Mr Bason was not being very charitable, but I seemed unable to stop his flow of talk.
'She and that verger woman are doing the refreshments tonight. I suppose that will be within her capabilities - she will make a good cup, as they say, and of course Father Bode does enjoy that; but Father Thames likes his Lapsang, which he takes correctly without milk or sugar. I prefer Earl Grey myself - find the Lapsang too smoky.'
'Do you?' I said in a rather cool tone, feeling that Mr Bason needed to be put in his place. 'I suppose Lapsang is really an acquired taste. I am very fond of it myself.'
'That rather surprises me. I feel that women don't really understand the finer points of cooking or appreciate rare things,' he went on, quite unabashed. 'All the greatest chefs have been men.'
'What do you think about this knotty problem?' I asked, turning to Mr Coleman, feeling like the chairman of
a discussion. 'Mr Bason maintains that women don't really understand the finer points of cooking.'
'Oh, I don't know,' he said, rather confused. 'I think some ladies cook very well. In some ways it's funny to see a man cooking.'
Mr Bason turned away, perhaps offended, and as my conversation with Mr Coleman seemed to have come to an end I found myself temporarily with nobody to talk to. I glanced round the room to see what was happening, and began to wonder when the refreshments would be served. At this moment I caught Mary Beamish's eye and she came over to me.
'Why, Wilmet, standing there all alone,' she said. 'I didn't see you'd arrived. I'm so sorry.'
'I've been having a most interesting conversation with Mr Coleman and Mr Bason,' I said, irritated at the way she was making it appear that I had been waiting for somebody to notice me. 'It was really through Rodney that Mr Bason came to the clergy house so I felt I ought to have a word with him,' I added.
'Father Thames is delighted with him, I know,' said Mary warmly. 'Now do come over and talk to us. Miss Prideaux has been telling us about her experiences in Vienna when she was a governess to the royal family.'
I allowed myself to be led over to the little group. Miss Prideaux was certainly talking in her dry precise voice, but not now of Vienna.
'And he gets his own breakfast?' I heard her ask.
'Yes, there is a gas ring up there. He could cook sausages or eggs and bacon, or even kippers if he wanted to,' said Mrs Beamish, dwelling on the various dishes appreciatively. She spoke with a kind of pride, and I knew that they must be talking of Father Ransome. 'It will be quite like old times to have a priest in the house again,' she added.
Miss Prideaux took a small handkerchief from her bag and pressed it to her lips. I saw that it had a dove and the word ASSISI embroidered on it in cross stitch.
'So handy for you,' she said.
I wanted to laugh, for it sounded so odd the way Miss Prideaux put it, as if Father Ransome might be useful for chasing burglars, mending fuses or other manly jobs.
'But will he be about the house much?' I asked. 'I mean in the usual sense?'
'Well no, he will be having his main meals at the clergy house,' said Mary. 'But I suppose we may give him a meal occasionally.'
I was about to ask further questions when I saw that the moment had come. The group of priests was approaching us, and Father Thames was soon introducing Father Ransome.
His christian names - Marius Lovejoy - and the first glimpse of him earlier in the evening had led me to expect somebody handsome, but even so the impact of his good looks was quite startling. He was certainly very handsome indeed, with his dark wavy hair and large brown eyes. The bones in his face were well defined and his expression serious. I remembered that he had been in the East End and in the worst part of Kensington, and I wondered whether the suffering and poverty he had seen there had left their mark on him, until I realized that it probably wouldn't be like that in these days of the welfare state. I had been thinking of Father Lowder and a hundred years ago.
'How do you do,' I murmured as he was introduced to me.
Father Thames was holding forth about the accommodation problem at the clergy house. 'I wonder how many people realize that we haven't as many rooms as you might think,' he said. 'On the ground floor is the dining-room, a room we use for meetings, and a small cloakroom with a washbasin - cold water tap only; also the kitchen, of course, and the little room Mrs Greenhill had which we are now using as a storeroom.'
I wondered what they would be storing.
'Then upstairs there is my study and bedroom, the oratory, Father Bode's two rooms, a bathroom, Mr Bason's room, and a spare bedroom - very poky - for visiting clergy. We are really very cramped! And,' he paused impressively, 'this will surprise you - there is no basement! Now, would you have believed that?'
'All these old houses do have basements,' said Mrs Beamish, as if Father Thames were deliberately concealing that of the clergy house.
'But the house is not so old - that is another surprise! It was built in 1911 and was never intended as a clergy house at all. Its first occupant had five children!'
None of us seemed able to comment suitably on this.
'Things are very different today,' said Father Bode at last, his rosy little face beaming. 'No kiddies about the place now! I can see Mrs Greenhill at the urn. Now we can get on to the main object of this gathering, eh, Ransome?' he added jokingly.
Not the most felicitous of remarks, I thought, wondering how Father Ransome would take his badinage.
'I'm sure everyone will be glad of a cup of tea,' he said, in a curious, almost ironical tone. It occurred to me that he must be very tired of being introduced to people; perhaps even his flow of clerical small talk was beginning to dry up.
'Ah, Mrs Greenhill!' Father Bode stood rubbing his hands as she approached, attended by a kind of acolyte bearing cups of tea on a tray. The cups that cheer! I hope you've made mine extra strong with plenty of sugar.'
'I think it will be just as you like it, Father,' said Mrs Greenhill comfortably. Her rather pinched-looking features relaxed into a smile. 'I know you like these iced buns.'
I stood back listening to the cosy parish talk, wondering whether Mr Bason with his Earl Grey and sole véronique wouldn't really be wasted on Father Bode. I tasted my own tea and put the cup down again quickly, for it was not at all to my liking, nor did I feel I could tackle one of the large brightly iced cakes which were offered. I noticed that Father Thames was not eating or drinking either.
'Do you know,' he said in a low tone, 'I have been a priest for over forty years and I have never been able to take Indian tea. That will surprise you! It just doesn't agree with me. Of course these evening gatherings take place at difficult times, gastronomically speaking, but tea has become the tradition and most people seem to enjoy it. I shall have something later.'
'I hope Mr Bason is settling down well?' I asked.
'My dear, Mrs - er - so it was you who found him? Yes, of course, I remember that it was. Have I thanked you enough, I wonder? Do you know,' he lowered his tone, 'he has promised us a coq au vin!'
'I'm so glad,' I said.
'I'm just going over to have a word with Mother Beatrice and the sisters,' whispered Mary Beamish, coming up to me. 'Do you know Mrs Pollard and Miss Dove and Susan?' She indicated the group of chinless aristocratic looking ladies I had noticed when I came in. I had a quick foretaste of the sort of conversation we should be making and said hastily that I must be going home now. And indeed I felt that I had had enough. I moved as unobtrusively as I could towards the door, glancing back as I did so to see whether anybody else was leaving so early.
As I did so I happened to catch Father Ransome's eye. He gave a quick upward glance of mock suffering and half smiled. I was a little surprised that he should show his feelings in this intimate way, and wondered if anybody else had noticed. Poor young man, how tired he must be of the whole business! I supposed I could ask him in to have a drink one evening or even a meal. It was now even more galling to think of him living at the Beamishes. No doubt Mary would adopt a kind of proprietary attitude towards him.
Outside it was beginning to rain and it did not seem likely that there would be any taxis cruising about near the church. I stood hesitating, looking at the cars parked outside the hall, one of which was Mr Coleman's Husky. As I waited he came out with some of the servers; they piled into the car without so much as glancing in my direction and drove off quickly. I supposed they might be going back to the home or lodgings of one of them, but I found it difficult to imagine their private lives. It was now nearly half past nine - an awkward time, too late for going to a film; and although I had not the least desire to do anything of the sort, I arrived home wet and tired, feeling rather ill-used.
But in the drawing-room everything was warm and comfortable. A friend of Sybil's, Professor Arnold Root, an elderly archaeologist, was sitting by the fire and they were examining some fragments of pottery together. Ro
dney was reading some official-looking papers.
'Why, darling, you're wet!' he said. 'Why didn't you ring up? I'd have come for you in the car. Take off your coat and shoes and come to the fire.'
He fussed round me devotedly and I was comforted at once. 'It's only just started to rain,' I said, 'and in any case it probably wouldn't have been suitable to be fetched in a car.'
'Do Christians go in for discomfort for its own sake?' asked Sybil in her detached way. 'It seems unnecessary to me and rather stupid.'
'I suppose most of them don't have cars,' said Rodney.
'Deverel Rimbury?' said Professor Root, holding up a fragment of pottery. 'I think not. Mortification of the flesh has of course been a feature of many religious systems,' he added.
He was a gaunt, rather handsome old man, who shared Sybil's lack of religious faith as well as her interest in archaeology.
'What is this new curate like?' Rodney asked.
'Tall, dark and handsome,' I said. 'His name is Marius.'
'Just what you wanted then,' said Sybil tolerantly, as if I were a child who had just been given a new toy. 'And he is lodging with the Beamishes? Ella will like that and I daresay Mary will find it agreeable too.'
'I don't imagine they'll see much of him,' I said quickly. 'He is having his main meals at the clergy house and just making his breakfast on a gas ring at the Beamishes.'
